


film in your eyes from the glow

by lyeon



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Epikegster Aftermath, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 20:16:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7906126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyeon/pseuds/lyeon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chowder takes his usual nap on the green couch in the Haus. He wakes up to unexpected company, and an improbable conversation ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	film in your eyes from the glow

**Author's Note:**

> i figured it’s unlikely that chowder actually calls himself “chowder” in his head, but ngozi also drew chowder wearing a goalie mask in his own memory, so what do i know
> 
> title from jaws theme swimming by brand new

It snows a lot, in February. Chris can feel the cold creeping in from the gaps under the window panes, through the space between the balding rug and the wooden front door. He curls his legs up from where they'd been hanging limply over the edge of the couch and digs his toes deep into the gaps in the cushions.

He's taken his boots off – he still does it everytime he comes to the Haus, even though the first time he did Shitty had laughed at him until Lardo hit him in the shoulder with a wet paintbrush and told him to shut up.

"You don't have to, Chowder," she said. "It's a dirty frat house, the bottom of your shoes are probably cleaner than this carpet."

Lardo still had an undercut then. The edge of her woolly hat pressed up against the line marking the edge between her hair and where her head had been shaved, while Chris held his own cap in his hands. A Sharks one, black and teal, from 2010. He bought it himself when they made the playoffs, jubilant; and then cried bitterly into it after they got swept in Chicago.

Chris isn't sure who Lardo supports, or if she even follows any teams outside the NCAA. But she's a good manager, even if Shitty complained about the damp blotch on his shirt for the rest of the afternoon. How would Chris look with an undercut? Lardo is very cool.

He readjusts the throw cushion covering half his face to block out the light. There'll be lines pressed into his face later from the weight of his arm thrown over the top as he dozes. The sounds of Bitty in the kitchen float his way – the delicate clink of glass bowls and thud of heavy plastic on wood.

No one's asked him yet, but if they did Chris would tell them that the green couch is his favourite – not because he particularly likes the odd patches that stick slightly to his clothes, or its smell of stale chips and beer – but because it's the one that's right outside the kitchen and that's the best. He can't stretch out because his legs are too long and his feet go numb after a while, but on a quiet day he can close his eyes and almost dream he's back home. Maybe the air conditioning is turned too high, and perhaps his ma is trying a new recipe, something doused in caramel and cinnamon-sweet. But he can almost imagine what it would be like outside: warm and bright like August. And maybe later she would do a stir fry for dinner, something fresh and green with garlic and sunflower oil.

But the sounds from the kitchen are getting louder: a metal clang and the scrape of a fork against a plate. Perhaps today isn't the best day. Maybe it's too cold. There are voices now, too.

"So why are you here again?" Bitty. But strangely tense.

Someone else – a stranger’s voice, flatter and lower. "Jack, obviously. We're having dinner."

"Here?"

A pause. Something ceramic hitting the countertop. The same disinterested tone. "I drove here, so. Wherever."

The venn diagram Chris starts drawing in his head doesn't have anyone who fits into it. Yes, car. Yes, Jack. But apparently, no Bitty. There’s no one he can think of who sits in the intersection of all those things. Someone he hasn’t met before? One of Jack’s friends. Must be a good one, he guesses, to have driven all the way to Samwell in this weather – the last thought he has before drifting back off to sleep.

*

The next time Chris wakes up is he’s distinctly sure there’s a cat purring beside him. But no one in the Haus has a cat – Ransom is allergic, isn’t he? He pushes the throw cushion to the side and sits up blearily. Definitely a cat. But where?

“Hey man. Did I wake you up? Sorry, it was my phone.”

Chris jumps a bit, turning rapidly around to where the voice had come from. His eyes widen as he shakes off the last of his nap, and staring squarely at the person who’d spoken – blonde and broad shouldered and tan in a way that Chris hasn't seen since the most golden days of summer.

“Aren’t you – You’re Kent Parson?”

Chris sounds awestruck even to himself, and it’s embarrassing the way his voice ticks upwards at the end. He doesn't mean for it to come out as a question – he knows who Parson is, obviously. But at least Parson doesn't seem like he minds.

“That’s me. Sorry for waking you up. I forgot about the autoplay on this thing,” he says, gesturing at his phone.

Then Parson looks at him, thoughtful. “You’re Chris, right? The Sharks fan?” 

Oh, wow. “You remember me?”

Chris can barely recall what he said to Parson at the Epikegster, although Nursey laughs every time someone brings up that photo of him with his mouth half-open, hand flung out and accidentally covering Parson’s face. He’d been mildly disappointed about it until Parson scored a hat trick on Niemi in January, and then Chris wasn’t upset about blocking him anymore. On his less generous days he thinks he probably did a better job than most of their blue line that night, to be honest.

“Of course.” Parson sounds amused. “The hoodie helps, though.”

Chris looks down at the logo printed across his chest, grinning despite himself. “It’s a pretty big giveaway, I guess.” Then he remembers pieces of the conversation he’d overheard. “Where did Bitty go? Are you here to see Jack?”

“He said he had to go for a lecture. And yeah. Jack. He said he’ll be back later around four?” Parson pauses, looking uncertain. But Chris nods.

The Haus usually emptied out on Thursday afternoons – which is why he comes over to nap even when they don’t have a game. But he can imagine Bitty’s lack of enthusiasm about having to go to class in the middle of a baking session. Maybe that was why he was so disgruntled just now.

“It's cool that you and Jack still meet up,” Chris says. “Since the kegster?” 

“Yeah, well. We don’t come to Boston much, but we have a rest day here this time. So I texted him. Said I’d drop by.” Parson shrugs, looking away.

Chris understands, though. He doesn't regret choosing Samwell – he’s loved it since his parents used to bring him to skate at Faber, a tiny child swaddled in a puffy jacket and gloriously happy on the ice. He likes his classes, he loves the hockey, and Caitlyn especially is really, really great. He just misses home sometimes – the people he grew up with, familiar with all the major and minor beats of his life, just like he knows all of theirs. If he came within an hour’s drive away to any of them like Kent he would have made the trip for sure. But the simple geography of distance between Samwell and Santa Teresa isn't something he can do much about.

“Yeah, I get it,” he says. Maybe Kent and Jack are a little like that too. “You and Jack were close in junior, right?”

The words come out before he can stop himself. Even as a ten year old on the other side of the continent Chris had heard whispers about what happened in their draft year. But Jack himself hardly ever talked about his time in the Q. Chris doesn’t want to pry, and he definitely doesn’t want to talk about his captain behind his back. He doesn’t even really want to know.

“Um, sorry – You don’t have to talk about it, I shouldn’t have asked–”

“Nah, it’s cool.” Kent says, waving his objection away. “Yeah, we were close. We went through a lot together, me and Zimms. Junior was really great, some of it maybe even better than it is now.”

Chris doesn’t mean to, but he makes a sound out loud in disbelief. Parson looks up. Chris doesn’t know what his face looks like, but Parson laughs when he sees it. “Yeah well. Nothing beats winning the cup. But we don’t always win. And the Q – that was just _fun_. Hockey’s my job now, an amazing job. But Zimms and I – we were just kids. We were really fucking good at hockey, and we just went out and played the game. It didn't really matter what else we did.”

Kent pauses then. He’d been answering easily, almost by rote – Chris had the distinct sense he was listening to a spiel Kent had delivered a hundred times before.

There’s only a hint of a smile left on Kent’s face. 

“At least, I thought it didn't, you know?”

He falls silent after that, and Chris is left with the distinct feeling that he’s stumbled over an unseen something sitting blatantly between them in the middle of the room. The silence is thick and slow, even as his mind races. He doesn't quite know what to say. 

But Kent Parson is a professional. Somehow Chris had almost forgotten. But now he can practically see the long-since ingrained media training whirr into action in front of him. Kent Parson runs a hand through the front of his hair, and then he shoots a new smirk Chris’ way. “Anyway. You’re from San Jose?”

Chris nods. Parson’s grin widens. “Awesome. You’ve got to give me food recs, man. Jeff’s fussy as hell and he keeps making us go to the same damn taco place every time.”

*

Thursdays in April are warm, full of birds chirping in the wet afternoons. The sound of keys jangling at the door, scuffing against the carpet as it opens. Chris’ nap ends again. He sits up, blinking at the door – at Jack.

“Oh, hey, Chowder,” Jack says. He’s carrying a sizable something wrapped in brown paper under his arm. “I think this is for you.”

Chowder rubs the sleep out of his eyes, staring at the package Jack is holding in front of him.

“For me? Really? But why would they mail it here?”

Jack shrugs, and motions at him to take it. He does. It’s heavy in his hands, but soft – not a box. _CHRIS CHOW_ is scrawled in black ink across the front, followed by the Haus’ address in block letters.

“I’m making a wild guess here, but I’m pretty sure that’s Kenny’s handwriting.” Jack frowns slightly, looking down at the text. “Still looks like chicken scratch, eh?”

“Kenny?” Oh – wait. _Oh._

“I’m glad you two got along so well, the last time.”

Chris looks up slowly, still holding on to the package with both hands. But Jack’s eyes are just crinkled up at the edges from smiling.

Jack had made it home just as Chris finished rattling off his favourite dim sum restaurants in downtown San Jose, pinning them in the maps app on Kent’s phone for good measure. He hadn’t revisited the memory recently, but now he remembered the way Kent had gone silent when the Haus door opened. Jack had been standing in passageway as the wind gusted in from behind him, shaking the snow out of his hair.

“Jack – I –” Kent seemed frozen, almost lost for words. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have–” Kent abruptly falls silent. Sorry? Chris still had no idea what it was, but the unseen something he'd sensed had come just slightly more into view. Jack didn't reply immediately. A deep breath – sharp winter air. 

Then Jack took a step closer and his voice cut through, warm as anything. “Hi, Kenny,” he’d said, and only then did Kent crack the ghost of a smile.

They’d left together soon after, after Kent thanked him for the food recommendations as he slid his coat and boots on, hand twisted around a dove grey scarf. Jack had looked quizzical by the doorway, already ready to go, waving goodbye as he and Kent made their way out.

“Are you gonna open it?” Jack asks. His smile grows wider, eyes curving into upside down _U_ s. “I think I know what it is.”

Chowder tears off the clear tape sealing the brown paper package and _does not_ start squealing when he takes out the item inside. A Sharks home jersey, signed in silver marker: _To the biggest Sharks fan in Samwell, Chris Chow._ Thornton, Marleau and Pavelski.

_The pork dumplings were amazing. Hope you like this! KVP._

**Author's Note:**

> you can talk to me on [tumblr](http://jkvlr.tumblr.com)!


End file.
